


Making An Effort

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Bright Young Things, Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 20th Century, Funny, Gen, Humor, Misunderstandings, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Gabriel (Good Omens), POV Miles Maitland (Bright Young Things), Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 07:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19079998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Gabriel mistakes an unsuspecting doppelganger for Aziraphale.Miles Maitland mistakes an archangel for a potential lover.





	Making An Effort

“Hello, Mr Fell,” Miles chimed as he stepped out of the rain, shaking off his umbrella. The proprietor of the shop – A.Z. Fell & Co., a delightful little spot – moved forward, and he fussed over Miles most delightfully, a moue tugging at his lips as he reached out and pushed Miles’ slightly damp hair from his face.

“Oh, it _is_ raining dreadfully hard, isn’t it?” Mr Fell said sympathetically, and Miles couldn’t help the little giggle that dragged at his lips as the other man fixed his hair into place. “You must be very cold.”

“Not so cold, Mr Fell, for you know I am most immune to such ordinary happenstances as a drop of rain or, Heaven forbid, a _cold_ ,” Miles said, setting his umbrella into the bin for the purpose – although there was something about the shop, perhaps the way the draught and air flowed, that seemed to make one’s umbrella bone dry as soon as one crossed the threshold, so it was not as if he strictly needed to set it aside.

“Looking for any volume in particular?” Mr Fell asked, arching his eyebrow, and Miles grinned.

“No, just to browse, if that’s alright. I have rather devoured the last set of books I acquired from you, and so devoid as I am of night time reading I am forced to go in search of other wicked things to keep me entertained,” he murmured, and Mr Fell gave one of his prim little nods, lips smiling, and bustled further into the shop, allowing Miles to follow in his wake. The resemblance between them, Miles thought, was most uncanny – Mr Fell had tightly curled, blond hair that threatened in the direction of white where Miles’ own was a good deal darker, and Mr Fell was certainly plumper and thirty years older, but certain differences in shape and colouring aside, they really _did_ have very similar features indeed.

“Well,” Mr Fell had said when Miles had mentioned it, and brightly declared they must be cousins somewhere along the line, “everyone has a natural doppelganger, so they say.” And then, he had muttered to himself, muffling the words with his glass of cherry, “And I suppose we must get the blueprints from somewhere.”

He said a lot of odd things like that, did Mr Fell.

The wonderful thing about Mr Fell, however, was his astonishing ability to make sure policemen didn’t come sniffing about – he was dreadfully useful in his gentlemen’s club in Portland Place, which was a rather quiet and boring affair, but was never invaded even by the most supercilious bobby going about his hardworking day ruining a fellow’s life, and here, too, he had a little backroom, dedicated to banned books. Books, one might say, for the _discerning_ patron.

Inverts, like Miles, who just wanted a bit of, well, of _romance_ , and failing that, some erotica.

(It was usually erotica.)

“Come along, dear,” Mr Fell said brightly, and led him off. Mr Fell was an odd duck, and no mistake. He was dreadfully kind – far kinder than anybody had any right being to Miles, Miles thought, although he was grateful – but he was a little sad at times, sad and quiet, thoughtful.

“You might join us for lunch this week, Mr Fell,” Miles said charitably. “Agatha and I wanted to try this new restaurant in Mayfair, and we’ll bring the cabal – you know, Adam, Nina…”

“Not that Tiger fellow?”

“Broken it off with him,” Miles said, looking at his nails and ignoring the sinking pit in his belly. “He was an awful bore, you know.”

Mr Fell turned to look at him, and for just a moment, Miles saw it all, that tremendous pain the man seemed to have sometimes. He reached out, gently brushing his fingers over Miles’ cheek, cupping it.

“I must do something for you, you know,” he said softly, in that paternal manner he sometimes had with Miles. He was like this with a lot of the young inverts – he’d not allow anybody into his bed, but he’d feed them biscuits and cocoa, give them the right books, set them up with one another. He was so... _soppy_ , Agatha might say, but Miles couldn’t help but think it was the soft-heartedness of a man who’s own great love story had gone rather awry. “Find you a young fellow who’ll be as sweet to you as you deserve.”

“I don’t like sweet,” Miles said.

“ _Liar_ ,” Aziraphale murmured, with his crinkling eyes, his little wink, his little smile, and then he patted Miles’ cheek. “You’re the only one in, dear boy, so give me a moment, and I’ll pop and make you a cup of something.”

“Something stiff?”

Aziraphale gave him an indignant, disbelieving look. “It’s eleven in the morning, Mr Maitland.”

“It’s midnight somewhere,” Miles said, tone wheedling, but he grinned, because he knew he’d be refused. It was funny, when Mr Fell decided to be so stern, like a father.

“No, your options are tea and cocoa.”

“Cocoa, then,” Miles murmured, and then glanced to the side. “Oh, is that the new Henry James?”

“His autobiography,” Mr Fell said, in his sometimes snooty way, and he went back down the stairs, leaving Miles alone to pick up and examine the novel with interest.

\--

Gabriel liked to check in.

It was a way, he thought, to touch base, whatever the Hell that meant, and to keep close with his favourite of the retinue, all his most problematic. Aziraphale, Principality of the Eastern Gate, kinda fit under both umbrellas.

Gabriel _liked_ Aziraphale.

Guy was weird. Oh, the guy was _weird_.

He had kinda… Gone native a little. You know, the top brass had bodies, they knew what it was like, and Gabriel liked some of it – he liked picking out nice clothes and feeling all the fabrics, loved the _texture_ some stuff had, liked to jog and do discus and swim and all the sports the humans kept coming up with, but…

Aziraphale, he _ate_. That was just—

Aziraphale, he _ate_. That was just—

 _Yigh_.

Just the idea of it, of having stuff in his mouth, on his tongue, on his perfect teeth – Gabriel’s perfect teeth, not Aziraphale’s – it was just… creepy! But Aziraphale, he _loved_ that. And Aziraphale, he could do all kinds of cool stuff – he did a little of the magic tricks that humans did, and he could do this wild thing called _origami_ , which frankly blew Gabriel’s mind, and he could, you know, read.

Impressive guy.

Gabriel dipped into the bookshop, and he glanced around, seeing the shadow of a hat up on the second floor. He jogged up, whistling idly to himself. It was a good day. Aziraphale had good figures on his miracles – he was doing good, he was doing good. It was all good in the… Neighbourhood? Somewhere.

He was the archangel Gabriel, so everywhere around him was kinda contractually _obligated_ to be good, so…

“ _Hey_ ,” he said, and he clapped his hand onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. He was dressed a little differently to normal, with paint on his face, or something – eyedarkness? Eyeshade? That stuff, on his eyes, and he was wearing _sunglasses_ , and the fabric… Ooh… Gabriel dragged his fingers over the fabric on Aziraphale’s shoulder – it was a deep purple, and it shimmered, but it felt _smooth_ under Gabriel’s fingers, smooth and silky.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said slowly.

\--

The grip that clapped down onto his shoulder was a sudden, vigorous strike, and Miles looked at it, finding neatly trimmed fingernails and a rather handsome hand, under a lightly lilac suit – one of those subdued lilacs that pretended to be grey, except to the determined viewer. He followed the hand up to the face it belonged to, and took in the handsome visage of a fellow about Mr Fell’s age, with neatly trimmed hair and—

Goodness, _what eyes_.

“Hey,” the fellow said – an American with pretty, violet eyes, and hands like _that_? What was the saying? God will provide?

“Hello,” Miles said. “May I, ah, _help_ you?”

“We have to talk in private,” rumbled the fellow, with a sort of bright and cheerful confident, an easy smile on his face. The handsome fingers were stroking the fabric of Miles’ jacket, now, a pleasant shift over his shoulder.

Reaching up and pushing down his sunglasses that he could get a better look at the man, taking in his physique. He was _big_. Big, tall, broad-shouldered… He was a _handsome_ one. And bold, too, very bold. “Oh, yes,” Miles agreed, settling his own hand on the American’s thigh, which was gorgeously hard and plentiful of muscle, and giving him a grin of pearly-white teeth. “I believe we do.”

He pressed on the false door to the room with the banned books, and he reached up for the American’s hand, tugging him inside and pulling it closed again.

“Oh,” the American said, glancing around the little book-lined room as Miles pushed him back onto the little couch. Mr Fell might get… _just_ a bit annoyed with him, if he thought Miles was the only one in the shop, but honestly, it wasn’t as though they’d be the first to have a tousle in this little room, and in any case, the fellow was _handsome_. Even Mr Fell would be able to allow Miles that. “I didn’t know this was here.”

“Well, you do now,” Miles murmured, dropping into his lap, and the American’s eyes widened. “Why so surprised?”

“Just— Never had someone sit on my legs before.”

“No? Oh, you poor _dear_ ,” Miles murmured, setting his sunglasses aside, and reached for the American’s trousers. “Don’t worry, I’ll be between them soon enough.”

The pretty violet eyes widened further, but no protest was made, and when Miles guided the American’s hands to his hips, the American was _most_ obedient. Somewhat simple, evidently, but easily handsome to make up for that…

\--

Aziraphale did so like it when Miles decided to drop in. He was a charming young fellow, and Aziraphale did know it was important to have friends and connections, particularly since he no longer spoke with Crowley. There was something kindred, he felt, with young chaps like Miles, with the individuals at the Hyacinth and Vine on Portland Place, and with Aziraphale himself.

Forbidden love and all that.

Oh, he ached sometimes, thinking of Crowley. Where was he, now? Still in London? Still about…?

At the scream from upstairs, Aziraphale dropped his mug of cocoa and was utterly heedless of its shatter, rushing out into the bookshop proper and running up the stairs faster than he’d ever moved in his _life_ , his speed heavily augmented by a little magic at his heels, and he shoved open the false wall, looking into the private gallery.

He surveyed the scene with his mouth fallen open.

Young Miles Maitland, languishing in a dead faint, over the lap of a tall, broad gentleman with his trousers unbuttoned – a gentleman, in fact, who was not a gentleman at all, nor even a man, and was Aziraphale’s superior, the archangel Gabriel. Gabriel’s expression was one of baffled horror, and he looked askance at Aziraphale.

“He just— he—” Gabriel stared at him, looking between Aziraphale and the prone form of his patron. “Aziraphale?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale snapped, lamenting as ever for Gabriel’s immeasurable stupidity, and he came forward, leaning and gently scooping Miles into his arms – and _that_ took a bit of a miracle too, honestly, not that the young chap was _too_ heavy. “For goodness’ sake, Gabriel, what did you _do_ to him?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He was already carrying the poor thing downstairs, to lay him down on the plush sofa in Aziraphale’s office. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever fainted, at least – young Miss Runcible, his good friend, had told a few amusing stories as to Miles’ unfortunate afflictions, and Aziraphale could at least be comforted by _that_. His pulse was steady, and Aziraphale was quick about laying him down and covering him over with a blanket, rushing to clean up the cocoa and make him a new cup for when he woke up.

“I didn’t do _anything_!” Gabriel was saying, peering down at the poor boy.

“Button up your trousers,” Aziraphale hissed, forgetting his usual reservations with even mild rudeness to Gabriel – the chap was his _boss_ , after all, and he did worry about being honest about how much he disliked the other angel, but— But, _honestly_. “What did you— Why in _goodness’_ name was he—?”

“Well, he just! I thought he was you, you look the same!”

“Oh, well, take that up with the Corporations Department, it’s hardly my fault!”

“Well, he just— Aziraphale, I said hey and he said hey back and I said, well, we have to talk in private and _he_ said yes, we do, so why would he agree?” Gabriel’s voice was rather loud, and Aziraphale had to restrain himself from smacking him and telling him to shush as he poured out more cocoa. Not only did the bast— _No_ , not only did Aziraphale’s _beloved commander_ feel the need to invade the shop now and then to “tickle base” or whatever nonsense he was calling it now, he was molesting the patrons! And poor _Miles_ , of all— “And he sat on me and reached into my pants, and then he just… Made that noise, and fainted.”

“What’s in them?” Aziraphale asked.

“What’s in my pants? Nothing! I don’t like putting stuff in my pockets, it ruins the lines of the fabric.”

Aziraphale tightly pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and inhaling slowly through his nose. “I meant,” he said quietly, looking at the red-faced, uncertain form of Gabriel, “what sort of effort did you make?”

“Effort?” Gabriel repeated blankly.

Aziraphale, pink dashing his own cheeks, looked at Miles, still out of it, and then to Gabriel. “Show me,” he said crisply. Gabriel was without anything like modesty, and he undid his trousers again, tugging them down. Aziraphale looked, for a long moment, at the blank curve of flesh there. Decades later, he would recount the story to Crowley, and tell him, tears streaking down his cheeks, about how Gabriel had invented the Ken doll years before its creators. In the moment, it was not funny at all. “Of course,” he muttered. “Do button them up, Gabriel, you’ll give him another shock.”

“Well, what did he _expect_?”

“Well, I don’t _know_ , Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, more archly than he meant to, and regretting it even as the words tumbled from his lips, “perhaps a penis?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Gabriel said, understanding dawning like a sunrise over a particularly stupid mountain, and Aziraphale sat down on a stool beside the prone form of Miles, gently patting his cheek.

“Miles? Miles, darling, are you with us?” He set a smelling salt beneath the poor thing’s nose, and Miles blinked, his head tipping back against the couch. He drew a hand gently through Miles’ hair, and Miles’ head lolled, turning to look at him. Aziraphale watched his eyes very carefully, making sure they were focusing properly.

“I had the funniest dream, Mr Fell,” Miles said. “About a man with no genitals.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, feeling only the slightest bit guilty for the disapproval he injected into his tone, “I have said before you ought sup from your white mistress’ table a bit less, my dear. Have you much on you?” Miles was rather a devil for cocaine, as was the fashion for a lot of young people these days, and Aziraphale didn’t suppose it was _too_ naughty to encourage him away from it.

“Just my compact,” Miles mumbled, giving him a childish pout.

“Well, you gave Gabriel quite the shock, fainting like that.”

“Oh,” Miles said, following his gaze to Gabriel, who was wide-eyed and looking between them. “So you _do_ have a cock, after all?”

“Of course,” Gabriel blustered, “and chickens, and a coop. Just a normal man with a cock. And a penis too, of course. I have one of those.”

Aziraphale stared at him, but Miles had mistaken Gabriel’s honest idiocy for dry humour, and was giggling.

“Oh, you _are_ a treat,” he purred. “Handsome _and_ droll – Mr Fell, wherever were you keeping this delightful evening meal?”

“Gabriel is my cousin,” Aziraphale lied, gesturing for Gabriel to go away, which Gabriel either ignored, or didn’t understand. “From America.”

“Goodness,” Miles said, absently taking the cup from Aziraphale’s hands and drinking from it. His gaze was quite voracious as he took in Gabriel’s body, and Aziraphale wrinkled his nose slightly. “Well, you _must_ dine with me, Gabriel.”

“I don’t eat,” Gabriel said as Aziraphale winced.

“Well, you must simply sleep with me, then, and we’ll leave dining by the wayside.”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Aziraphale scolded him, but Miles, the incorrigible, only batted his eyelashes in Gabriel’s direction.

“Sit down,” Miles said to Gabriel, patting the sofa beside him, and Gabriel took a step forward, butt Aziraphale stood, stopping him and shaking his head emphatically. Gabriel frowned.

“Do excuse us for a moment, Miles,” Aziraphale said, and brought Gabriel out into the main body of the shop. “What— Gabriel. What is it you needed?”

“Nothing,” Gabriel said. “Touching base.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “Well, all is fine here, as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. Consider base touched. You’re sure it isn’t tickled?”

“Is he gonna be okay?” Gabriel asked, and Aziraphale looked up at him, somewhat surprised. Gabriel, like most other angels, wasn’t especially in touch with the individuals humans that populated the Earth – they tended to see them as a swathe of mortals, a wider group, and it was down to lower angels in the pecking order to care about particular ones.

“Yes, quite fine,” Aziraphale said. “He’ll be tickety-boo, given a little time to recover.”

“You sure I shouldn’t…?”

Gabriel wiggled his fingers meaningfully, and Aziraphale grabbed his wrist, tugging his hand down.

“No,” Aziraphale said softly, but with no small amount of haste in his tone. “The last time you did something to help a human, that poor girl got _pregnant_. The madness there was, trying to fix all that up once you’d done that. The husband was _furious_.”

“Only to _begin with_ ,” Gabriel said. “And look what happened after!”

“Thank you, Gabriel, for— for tickling base,” Aziraphale murmured. “But I’ll look after him.”

“Alright,” Gabriel said, with the smallest bit of reluctance, and Aziraphale went back to Miles.

“I wish they made more men like him,” Miles said softly. “Goodness, isn’t he just a meal and a half?”

“Oh, I think I can find you someone better. More your age, at the least.”

“He isn’t so old,” Miles said.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured, shutting the door to the shop at large, and clicking the lock to the shop entrance with a thought. “You’ve not the slightest _idea_.”


End file.
